Redux
by xXLadyLovelaceXx
Summary: Coming back to life is filled with complications. A different account of the resurrections of Messrs. Holmes and Watson.


**I. Record**

Reading back over my own published account of the event, it occurs to me that I have not been entirely honest in my recounting of the facts. Not that I could have brought myself to tell the real truth of the matter, since my purpose in putting pen to paper would not have been fulfilled by telling the world of the man behind the mask that Sherlock Holmes wore for them. It is – it was, such a rare thing that even I got to see the man behind it that I hesitate to record this even in my personal journal, but as time passes and details begin to slip my mind, I feel that having something of the man who was at the centre of my world for nearly a decade is necessary, even if it is only my own recollections.

Now that Mary is gone, I have nothing left to lose through honesty.

I shall begin, then, with a truer account of his last days.

I have written before now that although constantly vigilant during our trek to Switzerland, Holmes seemed in good spirits during the trip. For the most part, this was true, at least until we reached what would be our final destination.

Holmes suffered, in every sense of the term, from a violently upset stomach during our evening at the_Englischer Hof_. At the time, I had thought it was from overworking himself for so many days – even a body as used to abuse as Holmes' will eventually succumb to the effects of too much stress and too little sleep (Holmes had truly slept for only a handful of hours since he had turned up in my front room, and God only knows how long before then). I realise now that my friend's remarks about his career being over were subtle clues that he had fully expected this case to conclude his _life_, and not just his life's work. Perhaps he had perceived Moriarty's presence nearby before we retired for the evening, and knew that tomorrow was likely to be his last day on Earth – I fear I will never know what truly triggered it, only that he crept back into our shared room looking considerably worse for the wear at 1 o'clock on the morning of May 4th.

"I do believe, Watson, that there is finally nothing left in my stomach to be expelled." He sounded so badly worn out that I moved from where I had been sitting on my bed, since I couldn't sleep knowing he was unwell, and went to him. He very nearly collapsed into me when I drew near, and I took that as permission to help him into his own bed, still clad in trousers and shirt, braces and shirt-tails hanging around his legs.

I fully intended to return to the other narrow bed and try to sleep for a few hours, but upon seeing my friend shivering even under the heavy woollen blankets, I decided that he would benefit greatly from the presence of another warm body beside him. There is no longer any point in keeping the fact that my regard for Sherlock Holmes is – was – somewhat more than is appropriate between friends, since nothing ever did or can come from it, and so I cannot say that this decision was entirely selfless on my part – rather, I saw an opportunity to be close to him for very nearly medically sound reasons, and took it.

He was still awake when I slid into the bed behind him, and made no argument when I pulled him to me and began rubbing soothing circles over his belly. He seemed glad of the warmth and the comfort, and soon drifted off to sleep in my arms. It was only once his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed that I was able to whisper that I loved him, and that I would still love him if he really did retire after this case. That he would always be my dearest friend.

I find that I am still unwilling to dwell on the events of the next day, and can add only that I headed home with a heavy heart, close to tears for the whole journey. Knowing that I was going home to a dying wife and a life without my closest friend made it almost an impossible journey to make, and I did seriously consider joining Holmes in his watery grave. Only the thought that he had sacrificed himself for the safety of the inhabitants of London, and thus indirectly for _me_, prevented it.

I wonder now – if I had been able to confess what I felt for him when he was awake to hear it, might Holmes have tried to find another way to stop Moriarty than by the forfeit of his own life? I fear this is another question to which I will never have an answer, but I cannot help but feel that I did not, when it came to it, do everything I could have to keep him alive.

**II. Return**

The first letter had come attached to a copy of a touching but somewhat exaggerated account of his death, penned by his best – only – friend.

The second had announced the death of Mary Watson, details unknown.

The third contained a newspaper clipping reporting what was very carefully _not_ being called the suicide of John Watson, and only three words: "Come home. Mycroft."

Three pieces of correspondence from the one person who knew him to be alive. Three in a year and a half.

_John Watson, aged 38, follows his wife, Mary, who died three months ago._

_Follows his wife_. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

One person left in London to go back to. One who had known his secret, but not, obviously, honoured his request to look after Watson.

If nothing else, there were words to be had with Mycroft Holmes. It was time to return.

**III. Reappearance**

Initial calculations as to the number of people who were left in London for Sherlock Holmes had been off. It was pure chance, running into Lestrade on his single-minded path to Pall Mall. Pure chance, and yet that had never been something Holmes could bring himself to believe in. Look deep enough into something, and you will find the root cause. There is always a cause. And perhaps Gabriel Lestrade was at least _part_ the angel he was named after.

He had been mourned, the professional told him. Mourned by more than just Watson and his brother. And then he hit him, square in the jaw and with more power than he ever remembered the little man having behind him, and it was the first thing he'd felt at all since Mycroft's last letter.

The inspector laid an unsure hand on his back while he sobbed in an alleyway. He was good enough not to say anything about it afterwards.

He waited for an hour in Mycroft's sitting-room before his older brother returned. Clearly more had changed since his disappearance than he'd thought.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft. Surprised to see me?"

"Not in the least, my dear boy."

"Going to offer your condolences?"

"Ah, now that would be a little premature."

"Premature? My closest friend is dead. The last person whose death there is to mourn for me is yours, and I do not expect your condolences on that occasion."

"My dear Sherlock, what on Earth makes you think that Watson is dead?"

"Don't play games with me. I am tired of it. You damned well sent me a note declaring that John Watson was dead."

"I think you'll find that I sent you a newspaper article reporting his demise. The two are hardly one and the same. I would not have called you back for that."

"Mycroft, I am not in the mood to deduce your meaning. You are clearly cognizant of a different set of facts than I. Enlighten me."

"The continent never _was_ good for your mental faculties, was it? Very well – I consider it highly unlikely that John Watson is dead."

**IV. Requisition**

"I need your help. Watson is alive."

Lestrade wasted no time in ensuring the cooperation of the entire force.

**V. Research**

Five days. Five days it took to learn the doctor's whereabouts. Holmes had gone through every scrap of paper in his house, in his consulting rooms. Interviewed every person who had more than incidental contact with Watson. The whole of Scotland Yard was on the lookout for any information regarding him, no matter how small or insignificant. Lestrade followed the detective's orders, whatever they were, without question.

The answer turned up, as it so often did, in an easily overlooked detail. The tobacco Watson had been smoking was just _slightly_ different to his old blend. Only slightly, mind – Watson himself probably never noticed. Holmes noticed, as he noticed everything, and that led him to the new tobacconist who had a new employee, who owed money to some nasty sorts of people. Nasty sorts of people who, despite having heard word of Sherlock Holmes' death, still wanted revenge on him. The sorts who were clever enough to wait until there was no-one left to care enough about the whereabouts of John Watson. Excepting Mycroft, who had done the best thing he could in keeping well out of the doctor's affairs, besides sending him the occasional wealthy patient with a persistent case of hypochondria and a pocket-full of Sherlock's money.

Five days, and Watson had been in the warehouse for twelve, and he was bruised and bloody and unconscious, and surrounded by thugs who would later wish that they'd taken up a less profitable but safer line of work, once _they_ regained consciousness, but he was alive. Completely and utterly, wonderfully alive and for a moment, Holmes felt that he could carry Watson home on the back of that feeling alone.

Of course, a body pushed to its limits for five days is on the verge of collapse, and collapse it did. But not before it had completed its task, and Watson was safe. Safe and alive.

**VI. Recuperation**

Sherlock Holmes had woken up in a hospital bed enough times to know it was one of his least favourite places to wake up (narrowly beating "underwater" and "in the gutter" but coming in short of "tied to a chair" and "opium den"). However, waking up in a hospital bed next to a friend who he had not _known_(suspected, believed, but not _known_) was alive up until a few hours ago, _that_ was beaten only by "in front of the fire at Baker Street".

Watson awoke only moments after Holmes had managed to get out of bed and stop the nurse fussing over him. Holmes stood next to his bed and could do nothing but smile broadly at his friend, who returned the gesture with enthusiasm. He never saw the punch coming, but reflected that he probably deserved it. It didn't matter – they were neither of them dead, and all wounds could be healed with time. And Watson_was_ still smiling.

The hospital doctor, young, harassed-looking man that he was, did not take much convincing that they would both recover much better at home. There was no question as to where home was, to Holmes' mind. And since Watson was still groggy and pliable, they both got out of a cab at Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson seemed incredibly glad to see that Watson was all right.

Watson didn't seem to mind waking up in his old room. It was suspiciously well-aired and dust free, as far as Holmes was concerned, but he said nothing. They had all the time in the world to talk, tomorrow. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Holmes thought that the sheer, uncomplicated joy of watching Watson eating breakfast with as much spirit as he ever had, black eye, split lip and all, might almost have been enough to make his heart burst.

When Watson agreed that they would both be better off if he resumed living at Baker Street immediately, Holmes was fairly sure it actually did. That he had really died at the falls, and that he had somehow earned this indescribable happiness of the promised afterlife. But then Watson touched his hand, and it had a few more callouses here and there, an extra scar that Holmes stubbornly did not deduce the origin of so that Watson would tell him the story, and he could finally believe it was all happening.

**VII. Reacquaintance**

The scar, it turned out, had been the result of an incident with a desk-drawer which had swelled in the summer heat and gotten stuck, only to shatter when Watson pulled too hard. The doctor added that it was the only visible one he'd acquired since Holmes' disappearance, and the detective knew he was not speaking of those that had physically healed. He recounted the story of Mary's failing health stoically, and carefully failed to mention that he had still been wearing a mourning band before she died. He had worn it for much longer than society expected, the state it was in giving this fact away instantly to Holmes' sharp eye. It remained in Watson's pocket now.

Holmes spun stories of far eastern mystery and secrets he could never reveal, not even to Watson, and spoke of mysticism and international scandal and snowy peaks and deserts that swallowed up men like a frog would swallow a fly. He didn't speak of filthy rooms in France, or whore-houses in Amsterdam, or what it was like to trek through the wilds of Switzerland without a pack for a week. He didn't speak of the shallow grave that concealed the body of an army Colonel and a very clever air rifle. He certainly didn't mention that the grave was no more than a mile from the falls.

They laughed at how Watson would have to write another story now, or Holmes wouldn't be able to tell anyone his name, and he'd have no work, and they'd both be out on the street.

They sat together on the settee, far too close, and drank brandy and smoked and laughed and talked and had long moments of silence.

It seemed like nothing when one of the long silences was interrupted by a kiss. But then it was two, three, more. And then it _was_ more.

**VIII. Revelation**

Watson found himself stripping his friend down to bare skin, just to touch him, feel him. Make sure he was really there and really real, and felt like a human body should. And he did, warm and soft and hard and always just on the unhealthy side of thin and far too pale to be entirely well, but he was there and this was the same Holmes that he'd patched up a hundred times. There were new scars now though, and when he was done exploring them with his fingers he set mouth and tongue to them, and then every other inch of Holmes' skin.

And then he was pulling him close, too close to be comfortable, but Holmes remained silent and allowed him. And when he couldn't get him any closer, the next logical step, for Watson, was to bring him into his body. And so he did, and Holmes remained silent, and passive, and Watson would have stopped but for the look in his friend's eyes; the one that said that it wasn't that he didn't want to respond, but that he_couldn't_. That he was just as glad of this as Watson was.

When they were finally finished, exhausted beyond their injuries, mentally and physically, Watson pulled Holmes close again, but this time just to make sure he didn't disappear. And Holmes snuggled – snuggled! - closer and sighed contentedly, and it didn't matter that they were lying on the hard floor, because the moment couldn't have been more perfect.

"Do you still love me?" Came the small-voiced question from a mouth pressed against Watson's neck. And for a second it was the most wonderful question he'd ever been asked, having bitterly regretted not answering it when he'd had the chance. But - _still?_. And then it dawned on him.

"You heard me."

**IX. Recriminations**

"You heard me, that night before...before." Watson felt like something important had been ripped out of his body.

"Yes," came the tiny whisper, "is it still true?"

The doctor pushed away, horrified. Holmes had known. He had known for a year and a half, been alive and well, known that Watson's heart was breaking a little more every day he thought he was dead, and he'd stayed away?

"How could you?" He found himself saying, and he thought that maybe he was crying, but he couldn't lift a hand to be sure. He knew he was furious. And maybe Holmes could see that, in his face, because he'd never seen the man cower before, but that was what it looked like he was doing now.

"Watson?"

"You _knew_. You knew what I felt for you and you _still_ let me believe that you were dead for over a year. What if I hadn't been kidnapped? What then, Holmes? I would have lived the rest of my life mourning for you? Is that it? Was that your plan?" He was yelling now, practically screeching with rage, and he didn't care because he'd known Holmes was cold before but he'd never thought him capable of quite so much cruelty to a friend.

"Watson, I-"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear anything from you ever again." He was dressing now, hurriedly, and his hands were shaking and if he ever did get his shirt buttoned it would be a mess but he didn't care because anywhere but that sitting room was where he wanted to be right now. He couldn't find his waistcoat but it didn't matter enough to stop him from grabbing his jacket and flying out of the room. It didn't matter if he walked the streets half-dressed any more. There was no-one left to care about being seen by.

**X. Remorse**

"...I love you."

Holmes was fairly sure Watson hadn't heard him. He grabbed the other man's waistcoat from where it had been flung under the settee and gripped it tightly.

"Come back?" The detective could feel tears stinging at the back of his eyes. He knew this was entirely his fault, that he had done something horribly, completely wrong, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He'd let Watson have his normal life, and now he'd come back to him. What was he supposed to do?

He sat in the sitting-room, on the cold floor, and waited for the embers in the hearth to cool to black. He waited some more, after that, completely lost in a world where he had sacrificed so much to make Watson happy, and safe, and loved by a much better person than he could ever be, and it still wasn't the right thing. It is difficult, perhaps, to do the right thing for your own moral compass.

As he fell asleep, against his will, he was certain he could hear Moriarty laughing at him.

**XI. Restitution**

It was two weeks before Holmes managed to pluck up the courage to consider approaching Watson again, and then it seemed very important that he did it straight away, so he careened out of the sitting-room which he had made his nest for the past fortnight without remembering to remove the damning evidence of his emotional state that took the form of Watson's waistcoat hanging off his shoulders under his coat. Deciding at the last minute that an offering of some sort (besides himself) was in order, he ignored the odd looks from the tobacconist he had pinned against the wall only recently looking for the doctor, and took with him a package of Watson's blend of tobacco, which was back to the way it had always been.

He waited, in an unnatural show of patience, to be shown into his friend's office – the office he had visited only once before, and never with Watson in it. It struck him immediately that the man on the other side of the desk was not Watson at all.

"Dr. Ansruther?"

"Yes. Who are you?" The kindly, younger man looked terribly confused, as it simply _couldn't_ be who he thought it was.

"Never mind."

Holmes turned and exited the room as quickly as he'd entered. Refusing to acknowledge that Watson's absence had been as a physical blow, he wasted no time in tracking down one of the boys he had watching his friend, who directed him to a cheap hotel with a familiar name. This time, he ignored the strange look of the man behind the desk, who recognised him for exactly who he was and really, would have made a fine detective himself, with even the slightest touch of ambition.

"Back to where you began, Watson?" Holmes took in the state of the room, the state of his friend, the state of the insurmountable gap between them right now, and very nearly shied away from the task at hand. Watson was patently not in the mood for him, and he wondered if he'd ever been so, or if perhaps they had both been existing in a state of shock at finding the ideal (less-than-ideal, in truth) roommate the whole time they'd lived together.

"Back to moving on. The practise is sold. I thought I might take a trip somewhere. The continent. Or India, I'd like to see it again." Watson was very deliberately paying no mind to who he was actually talking to.

"I don't suppose you could be convinced to take on a travelling partner?" Holmes was unhappy with the nervous waver of his voice. He had earned this chance, waited patiently for years, so his doctor could enjoy a chance at a normal life. He had expected there to be a child, children, even, and resigned himself to the role of favourite uncle – favourite uncle who lived on an estate in the country, far too big for just himself, and why not raise the children in the open air, where they'd have a healthier life, go to better schools. Where there were fewer attractive, eligible women who would take kindly to a man living alone with a handful of little ones and no wife, and Watson had let him _taste_ the possibility of so much of that happiness before he'd torn it away, so why was it still impossible to hate him?

_Because you love him_, a very old, very familiar voice chided from the sidelines, and Holmes nearly missed his friend speaking.

"-convinced, if they were the kind not to abandon me mid-trip, certainly. Do you know anyone suitable for the task?" Watson turned and levelled his gaze straight at Holmes, and the detective had been shot before, but this felt like dying, he was certain.

"I gave you what you wanted. I let you have the life you deserved, and I'm sorry about your wife, if I could take her place, I would, in a heartbeat I'd trade my life for hers, for you. I'll never be suitable, but I'll want it more than anyone else could."

Watson froze completely, and Holmes realised that this, somehow, was new information to him. Was it possible that Watson hadn't realised what had gone on over the past months, what his friend's intentions had been and how badly it had all gone wrong? He had missed something, somewhere, as people tended to do with Holmes, and this was the price the detective would pay for his own obtuseness. "I should have started that off with 'I love you'." He added thoughtfully while Watson continued to stare at him.

**XII. Reconciliation**

Unexpectedly even to him, Watson burst out laughing. It wasn't the cruel laughter he'd expected, nor was it hysterical. It was a simple, honest, happy sound and he couldn't stop to think about it just yet, because the look on Holmes' face, the first time Watson had ever seen the man look honestly confused about something, was too precious to cut short with any sort of explanation. Eventually, he ran out of breath, and collapsed on the little bed beside the window, clutching his stomach and wheezing noisily. Holmes still didn't move, possibly afraid that his friend's mind had finally broken under the strain of having to deal with such an infuriating, impossible man as Sherlock Holmes.

When he finally calmed down enough to speak, Watson managed to ask, "do you know how long it's been since I've laughed like that?" Holmes remained silent on the matter, still wary of the madman who looked exactly like his friend in the room. "It's been years. Since shortly after I married, I think." Still looking unsure, Holmes crept closer to Watson now that he was fairly certain it was still _Watson_ in there. "The point I'm making is that I have missed your absurdity sorely."

"I'm not being absurd. I'm laying my heart out for you, and you _laugh_ at me." As seriously as he attempted to say it, the beginnings of a smile tugged at Holmes' lips ever-so-gently. Watson looked back at him with twinkling eyes that suddenly looked so much younger than they had only weeks ago.

"Oh, I know, I know. It took a lot for you to say that, I'm sure. Indeed, that may be the first time I've seen you quite distressed enough to let the silver slip from your tongue." He smiled a soft, warm smile that reminded Holmes of days spent a million years away in the cool summers of his childhood. Just enough to warm you through without the sting of heat.

"This has gone very differently to the way I expected it." Holmes confessed awkwardly. "I rather thought I might have to beg. Or at least convince."

"When have you _ever_ had to convince me to do anything?" Watson's smile faded for a moment, "why not ask me to run away with you? I would have followed you to the ends of the Earth." He finally, finally voiced the question that had been on his mind since he'd first caught a hazy glimpse of a white knight in a black frock-coat coming to his rescue in the warehouse.

"I know. And you know as well as I do that you would have resented me for dragging you away from your ill wife. I can take you hating me for something I've done, but not hating both of us for something I've asked you to do."

Watson nodded slowly. "I knew you were going to say that. Thank you."

"For leaving you, or for coming back?"

"For loving me. Enough to put yourself through things you'll never tell me about except perhaps in your nightmares. I'll always wake you from them."


End file.
